Chapter Fifteen
The sun was streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and painting the mountains gold when Parvati woke up the next morning. Which was her first hint that something wasn’t right, because she didn’t have floor-to-ceiling windows or a mountain view.
Her second hint was her headache. And her third was the vague way her entire body seemed to ache.
Nothing like a Wednesday morning hangover to make you feel like a real adult.
Thank God Madison had been scheduled to open Common Grounds this morning because by the look of it she’d already missed the beginning of the morning rush.
She rolled over and her first sliver of awkwardness worked its way into her hung-over brain.
She was at Max’s. She remembered coming over last night after she’d left Tori’s. Feeling lost and adrift and wanting to be with someone who wouldn’t make her feel quite so alone. Then there was the scotch. And bitching about things she really shouldn’t have been telling Max—
And Max shoving her into the guest room as soon as it became obvious she was two-scotches over the driving limit.
She didn’t think she’d come on to him.
God, she hoped she hadn’t come on to him.
She climbed out of bed—dreading facing him but needing to get on with her day. At least she didn’t have to worry about spending time getting dressed, since she appeared to have slept in her clothes. She smoothed out the wrinkles as she crept down the hallway, her ears tuned for any hint of Max, but all she heard was silence.
She vaguely remembered dropping her purse beside the couch, but now it was neatly arranged on the coffee table. The little kitten heels she must have kicked off at some point were positioned side-by-side by the door.
But no Max.
She crept into the kitchen, half expecting to find him whipping up French toast, but instead she found a note propped up on the counter with her name on it.
Parv—
I had to get to the office, but make yourself at home. Especially in the kitchen. Any baked goods that just happen to appear here will be welcomed with open arms.
Max
She sank onto the nearest stool, relieved as soon as she read the first words. He wasn’t here. She didn’t have to face him. It would have been awkward, but he’d done the one thing guaranteed to put them back on comfortable ground. He’d gone about his life as if nothing had happened. And nothing had.
* * * * *
“Your two o’clock just pulled up on a gorgeous Harley and Hank the Hammer has now emailed me three times with different excuses why we need to hack into his daughter’s phone for her own protection. He’s threatening to sue.”
Max looked up from the financials he’d been reviewing when Candy appeared in his office. “Remind the Hammer he hired us to upgrade the security on his house, not stalk his daughter—“ He broke off. “On second thought, don’t. I’ll tell him. He shouldn’t even be contacting you. Has he been bothering you?”
“Not so you’d notice. You want me to show your two o’clock in?”
“If you don’t mind.” She usually didn’t volunteer for guide duty—more right-hand-man than receptionist.
Candy smiled broadly. “Oh no. My pleasure.”
The reason for her enthusiasm walked through the door three minutes later.
Elia Aiavao was six-foot-five with muscles everywhere—evidently his convalescence hadn’t negatively impacted his conditioning. He wore a white button down shirt with the cuffs folded back open over a snug black t-shirt and black cargo pants. Tattoos crawled up the side of his neck and down his arms to the backs of his hands in thick, black tribal bands, but his hair was neatly trimmed and the grin he flashed Candy as she waved him through the door was easy-going—and proved why Aiavao had earned the nickname the Smiling Samoan during his Mixed Martial Arts career.
He was huge, but a friendlier looking badass Max had never seen. Though there was something less-than-happy in his eyes, hiding behind that ready smile. He put on a good show, but there was more to Elia Aiavao than a toothy grin.
“Mr. Aiavao. I’m Max Dewitt. Thank you for coming in today.”
“Just Elia’s good.” He extended his hand and walked forward with only a slight hitch in his step.
Max let his gaze flick down, noting the matching motorcycle boots. If he hadn’t read up on the Smiling Samoan’s infamous crash, he never would have known the left leg was a prosthesis below the knee.
Elia followed his gaze, his grin never wavering. “I’m getting better with it every day. Though I have to admit it’s weird when I go to the beach and random strangers come up to me to thank me for my service. I might have to get a tattoo that reads, ‘You’re welcome, but I’m not a heroic war vet.’”
Max shook his hand, unsurprised by the strong grip, and waved him to a chair. Following Elia’s lead, he didn’t dance around the topic. “You still ride a Harley?”
Elia settled into the chair, stretching his left leg out in front of him in a way that made Max wonder if he was in pain. “Some of the cruisers come with a modified heel-shifter that I can work even with my robo-leg.”
“I wouldn’t think that would be the primary issue.”
Elia shrugged. “If I’d lost my leg in a car accident, am I supposed to never ride in a car again? I like riding my bike. Fuck any drunk-driving asshole who thinks they’re gonna take that away from me.” He smiled. “Pardon the language.”
Max smiled, liking Elia already. “Cross tells me you used to play football.”
“A few years in college before I got into MMA and decided I’d rather get my concussions in octagons rather than on fields. I was a beast,” he said with absolutely no modesty and a grin that took the arrogance out of the statement. “I could still probably do MMA—the rules about amputees are different from state to state—but I would know I wasn’t as good and I don’t want to be a novelty act. And this seems like an interesting gig.”
“You’d still be a novelty act in some ways. Our clients don’t just want protection, they want a bodyguard who is also a status symbol. You’d be exploited. On display.”
“Then it’s a good thing my helmet protected my money-maker,” Elia said, flashing white even teeth that had to be veneers after all the times they’d been publicly knocked out. “Cross said it’s all about pretty faces.”
“That’s part of it,” Max admitted. “But you’d have to be able to physically remove the client from a bad situation as well. The training would be extensive and even then you might not be suited to the job.”
Elia sobered, rubbing his thigh above his knee in a gesture Max would bet money he wasn’t aware of. His hands were scarred in places and Max didn’t know what other damage the accident had done, but his face was completely unmarked. And it was a pretty face. Elia certainly met that part of the Elite Protection criteria.
“Watch my fights,” he said. “I don’t give up. Even when I’m outmatched. I’m stubborn as fuck and I can do this job.”
“You don’t know Hank Hudson, do you?”
“The Hammer? Nah. He’s one of those WWE pansies, isn’t he?”
Max snorted. He was liking Elia more and more.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later, Max walked Elia out, promising to be in touch soon, and headed up to the break room, finding Candy at the table with her tablet while Pretty Boy sprawled on the couch and played X-Box—his preferred method of keeping loose before a job.
“Can we keep him?” Candy asked when he walked in. “He’s prettier than Pretty Boy.”
“Hey,” the model-slash-bodyguard protested without looking up from the screen.
Max grabbed a Vitamin water and sat down opposite Candy. “What do you think? I know you’ve been hacking into his life since the second he arrived.”
Candy shrugged, not bothering to deny it. Today she wore skinny jeans, flannel, and a pair of chunky glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Apparently hipster-lumberjack was her new look. “He was a badass.” She turned her tablet so Max could see the video of an MMA fight playing on her screen. “And anyone called the Smiling Samoan probably wouldn’t let diva clients rattle him or piss him off.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. He could be good.”
If he could do the job.
The addendum went unspoken, but they all heard it. Elite Protection was about luxury bodyguards, but they were still bodyguards, and some of the best in the business when it came to close protection. Max couldn’t do anything to damage that reputation—no matter how much he liked a guy. Some of the clients would love the sexy MMA amputee, but the first priority was making sure the clients were safe and he didn’t have any experience. And he was still learning how to go through life with one leg.
EP couldn’t be his learning curve. But didn’t he deserve a chance to prove that he could do it? There was no quit in Elia Aiavao.
Max watched the video and Aiavao moved with lethal grace, his body poetry in motion, every movement an extension of his will—and now all those instincts that had made him so lethal had to be modified to fit his new form.
Max wished he could talk it out with Parv. She had a way of clarifying things for him, but he hadn’t seen her since the night she’d gotten drunk at his place.
Not that he was avoiding her. He was just avoiding the temptation—once he realized he wasn’t sure he would keep resisting it.
He’d sent her a text thanking her for the cookies she’d left for him and she’d occasionally send him messages with snarky comments about her internet dates, but he was keeping his distance. It was better that way—and she hadn’t shown up at his house again, which just indicated that she agreed.
They’d gotten a little too close to the fire. They wouldn’t do that again.